


Goretober One - Mouth Trauma

by Ryenan



Series: Goretober 2017 [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Gore, Goretober, Graphic Description, Major Character Injury, Medical Trauma, Mouth trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 23:05:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12330642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryenan/pseuds/Ryenan
Summary: Written for Goretober - Stiles + Mouth Trauma.  Graphic description of mouth injury, trauma, medical practices. Less Graphic Character Death.





	Goretober One - Mouth Trauma

Stiles can dish it out. The damage he can do with a bat makes Scott sick and Peter horny, he’s so good at pummeling people -monsters – anything – in to oblivion. But Stiles can’t take it in return – no amount of strength training, batting practice, or pure malice can strengthen brittle human bones and yielding, bruiseable flesh.

* * *

The basement floor is littered in wood scraps and factory trash. It provides Stiles with weapons, but it’s precarious footing in all of the junk.

He’s doing well, even with his hands tied together and a headwound from his kidnapping, and he takes out one of the men before they even know what’s happening.

Then he slips.

Stiles’ makeshift bat splinters apart instead of slowing his fall, shredding the palms of his hands as it goes. With his hands bound he can’t catch himself and his head cracks against the concrete and debris.

There’s a dirty L shaped bracket, where something was bolted to the floor, and Stiles can taste it.

Actually taste the rust and dirt and cedar chips, for a split second, before his mouth fills with a suffocating amount of blood.

Blood is a much more familiar taste.

The kidnappers leave him for dead. They see all the blood pooling around his head, and decide to split, not willing to stick around and ransom a dead boy to the sheriff. They call an ambulance for him, though, which keeps him from bleeding out on the floor.

 

He’s lying on his side, metal sticking out of his cheek blood pooling around his head, jerking and coughing and screaming and choking, when the paramedics find him.  They intubate him sideways, one holding his head as the other twists his body back to expose his trachea. They pack his mouth with gauze to soak up the blood and stabilize the bracket, because they can’t take the bracket out of his mouth – it has to travel with them to the hospital for a surgical team to remove.

Once his mouth is packed and the morphine has kicked in – once he’s stopped screaming – it’s the firemen’s turn. They cover his face as best they can and start to saw.

The screws are rusty but thick, and each drag of the hand saw is excruciating. He lasts less than a minute before passing out, and isn’t lucid again until they arrive at the hospital – where they rush him from the ER to the OR so quickly he barely glimpses his father. His head is spinning and cheeks are so swollen he can’t really be sure, but the green jacket and glimmer of a badge is reassuring nonetheless.

Stiles loses seven teeth, a quarter of his tongue, shatters his jaw into fifteen pieces, fractures his eye socket, and ruins his hard palate.

He stays in a medicated fog, half asleep and half uncomfortable, for nearly two weeks while the tissue of his mouth heals. There are thirty-seven stitches just inside his mouth, twenty-eight for the entry and exit wounds, and nine more across his forehead. Every two hours a nurse changes the dressing and packing, and every two hours John has to leave the wing so he can’t hear Stiles cries.

 

When he’s healed enough to stop packing the gauze, the doctors take him of clonazepam and let him drift back to reality. He can’t really talk with his jaw wired shut, and moving his tongue pulls on the stitches painfully.

He rips them out barely a day later, shredding his tongue again and flooding his mouth with blood, when he wakes up from a nightmare and tries to scream. The doctors have to clip the wires holding his jaw shut while he’s awake before he drowns on his own blood. You can’t bleed out from the tongue, but excess clotting factor can gum up the windpipe and esophagus, or seep into the lungs and suffocate you from the inside.

They re-intubate and put him under again, and leave him on the cloreazapam after they repair his tongue. He stays under, unconscious, for ten days. This time, when he wakes, the doctors have removed all the stitches.

 

His back four molars, on the bottom left, have been replaced with sensitive, smooth skin. On the top right, there is a gap behind his canine where two and a half teeth were knocked out, and they had to remove the fragments from his cheek and gum. The scars on his face clearly illustrate the trajectory of the bracket, but it’s hard to tell how disfiguring they will be because he’s still swollen, cheeks red and yellow and purple.

But his tongue is the worst. The muscles are severed oddly, unevenly, and there was nothing to reattach. His speech will never be understandable again, and there’s no way to tell if he will be able to eat solid food.

Stiles works with a speech therapist for a few days before he goes home, but he can tell it’s a futile endeavor. He starts an online sign language course instead. He doesn’t speak to anyone, just nods and hums at his father and the nurses. He doesn’t talk, and he doesn’t think.

Stiles is measured, careful, exact with his pills, keeping his pain down and his thoughts flat. The swelling in his face goes down over the next week, as does his weight. He drops pounds quickly only drinking protein shakes and smoothies, from 147 pounds to 130 to 120 in such quick succession.

At 118.5, Scott gives him the bite.

Stiles coughs black blood over his ruined tongue for five hours before he dies, and they bury him six weeks after they first thought they’d lost him.

He does not rise from the dead, does not turn and heal and become whole again. His life is over before most would say it started.

John knows differently. How much he had lived through, who he had lost – why he was taken. Stiles had lived and loved and lost, and not in equal amounts.

Stiles knew misery, and death wasn’t the worst thing he had ever endured.

 

 

 


End file.
